The Golden Rule
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: In times of peace, the golden rule stated that one should treat others as they themselves wished to be treated. In times of war however, the golden rule was something far different.


**The Golden Rule**

Six years, and he was finally back in Stormwind. Or two, depending on how one measured things.

Uther wasn't much for measurements - the length of a spear, the width of a wall, the height of a bow, and how that related to the tension that released the arrow. He'd leave measurements to learned men, and he'd use the results of those measurements to bring faith and steel to the world. But he could count. So in that sense, six years. Six years since the orcs had first appeared on Azeroth. Two years since the fall of Stormwind Keep. One year since the start of what people were already calling the Second War; otherwise known as the Last War or End of All Things when the Horde had looked set to march on Lordaeron's capital. And still being able to count, he had another number - three. Three hours since the 8th Army had crossed the border of what had been Stormwind. Three hours since the last soldier had crossed from Khaz Modan into a kingdom that technically didn't even exist, and depending on what happened later, might never again. Three hours since he'd dismounted his horse and lain against the burnt-out husk of a wooden building, in what had once been the border town of Kendrick's Field. Three hours, all in the knowledge that come the next morn, the march would continue.

He was exhausted. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He wanted it all to end. But still, he could count.

"Sir Uther?"

And still, he could hear, and see, and behold Sir Gawain standing above him. Offering him a waterskin from his gauntleted hand.

"Thought you might need some water."

"The men need-"

"The men have had their water. Now it's your turn." He dangled the waterskin in front of the paladin. "Just take it and stop the holier than thou routine for once in your life. Your job is to keep the men on their feet. You can't do that job if you're not on your own feet. And if you don't do your job, then my job becomes even harder."

Uther grabbed the flask and poured the water into his mouth. Truth was, he needed it. And even if he didn't, even if his bladder was close to bursting and he had no means of removing his armour, he knew he might have taken it as well. Gawain was good with a sword, but not nearly as good as he was with speeches. And every time he wanted Uther to do something, he'd give some variation of the speech he'd just attempted. As second to Lord Commander Cicero, he believed it to be his job to keep the army moving.

Which it was, Uther supposed. But being here, in the land of his birth, he remembered jobs he'd had before taking up hammer and armour in service of the Light and the Alliance. He remembered working in a tannery, and later, with much fondness, serving as a cleric in Northshire Abbey. He'd served under men like Gawain, and treated men like him for four years. Only difference now was that he had the means to defend himself. And, he supposed, as he got to his feet and handed the knight the waterskin, another difference now was that this time, it was the Horde who was on the retreat.

"Uther, if I may? Cicero requests both of our presence in the command tent."

He wasn't listening, as the comfort of the orcs retreating reminded him of one of the facts of the world - an animal would fight twice as fierce if cornered. And having pushed them back this far, the orcs had scarce places left to run to.

"Sir Uther?"

"Hmm?" He looked at Gawain. "Yes?"

"Lord Cicero requests our-"

"Cicero? Yes. Of course." He picked up his war hammer and slung it across his shoulder. "Come."

It briefly occurred to him that it was Gawain who had come to him. That it was Gawain who should be leading him across the village. He, Uther, so-named the Lightbringer for his deeds, might have command of the Light, but Gawain had commanded men into battle for decades. Battles that had mainly involved bandits, trolls, gnolls, and even the odd border dispute, but battles nonetheless. Walking through what was left of the village, taking note of the men who'd found what rest and shelter they could, Uther reflected that if nothing else, this war would have created good commanders for the next one. Light knew the Alliance had spent its time weeding out the incompetent ones, or in the case of Alterac, weeding out traitors. Seeing the banners flapping in the wind, he reflected on the lack of any orange. The white of Lordaeron, the red of Stromgarde, the teal of Kul Tiras, even the black of Gilneas, but no orange. Alterac was gone. And while some of those banners were blue, bearing the Lion of Azeroth, under which stood the most hardened soldiers of all, it did his heart little good. Those who fought under the banner of Stormwind were men he could count on. What he feared for, commanders or no, was what would become of those men after this war ended. He clutched his hammer, reflecting that the one he bore was meant for only one thing, and not masonry. If Kendrick's Field was ever rebuilt, men like him wouldn't be involved. And, he reflected, watching as two shirtless footmen wrestled in the mud to the sound of laughter, he suspected men like them wouldn't either.

He looked at Gawain. "How are our supplies?"

"Stretched." Gawain looked back at him. "We're trying to live off the land, but all these soldiers, plus abandoned fields, plus slaughtered livestock?" He scowled. "Orcs took what they wanted and destroyed what they couldn't take."

"Scorched earth?" Uther asked.

"Something like that. Though some of us are having an easier time than others."

He nodded to the side and Uther followed the knight's eyes, seeing a cadre of elven archers standing in silence. A race apart from all others on Azeroth, and likewise standing apart as well. Somehow untouched by the mud, unperturbed by the stench as they sharpened their arrows and blades. No banner for them, he noticed. Too small a group. Even the dwarves they'd picked up from Khaz Modan had brought the banner of Ironforge with them, so relieved were they to have the siege of their lands broken.

_Bonds are formed in battle, _Uther reflected. _It's in peace when they become frayed._

"Mind if I ask you a question Sir Uther?" Gawain asked.

"Of course not."

"When this is over, what will you do?" he asked. "Go back to Northshire? Lead the Knights of the Silver Hand? Try and keep the peace?"

Uther smiled, thought it was without mirth. "Already looking to the next war, Sir Gawain?"

"I've used a sword against the enemies of Lordaeron for twenty-three years, I'm always looking to the next war. And mark my words, there'll be a war coming, even if men like me don't fight it."

"Men like you?"

"Warriors. Soldiers. Whatever you call us. Next war that comes will be trying to keep the Alliance together, and between you and me, I don't think that's a war that can be won."

Uther frowned. "That's a dim view of looking at things."

"Maybe. Or I'm just being a realist. Speaking of which..."

Gawain trailed off, as Uther beheld the sight before them. Beholding that sight, he briefly reflected that Gawain didn't have to say anything at all. Because marching into Kendrick's Field was a column of one-hundred men. All of them clad in chainmail and leather armour, far removed from the kind worn by regular soldiers in the Grand Army of the Alliance. They carried no banner, their shields were scarce better than bucklers, and each carried a spear or halberd, plus a dirk in their belt. Even if not for the carriage located at the head of the column, Uther could have guessed who they were. But that he saw the carriage, and the giant chest it trailed, he didn't have to guess who they were. He knew.

"Mercenaries." He looked at Gawain. "We're using mercenaries."

"We're at war, Sir Uther."

"You and I both know that this is a war unlike any mankind, nay, any race, has faced in living memory."

"And you and I also know that gold commands the hearts of men, far more than priests, kings, or flags." Gawain walked over to the carriage, and the mercenary commander who stepped down from it.

_Why wasn't there a horn? _Uther wondered. He looked around at his own men, only a scant few of which were giving the column much heed. _Are we really so tired that we can't even maintain a proper watch? _

He strode over to Gawain. Watch or no, he hadn't been informed of this. And even if men like Gawain and Cicero had more experience than him, he was still the commander of the Knights of the Silver Hand. He was The Lightbringer. The First Paladin He was the anointed of Archbishop Alonsus Faol, and the Servant of the Light. He had little interest in titles, but even he understood how the chains of command were supposed to work. So as he reached Gawain and the mercenary commander, he wasn't sure what irritated him more - that he hadn't been informed, or that the mercenaries were here in the first place.

"Alright, what is this?" Uther asked. He looked at Gawain, then the commander. "Speak."

The man looked at Gawain. "He doesn't know?"

"Lines of communication are stretched," Gawain murmured. He looked at Uther, the look in his eyes saying, _don't make a scene._

"That so, eh?" The man took off his helmet. "Funny. We passed through Kantron on the way here. The brothel there, the women are more than happy to stretch open their..." He trailed off, as he looked Uther up and down. "Hell. You're one of them ain't ya?"

"Excuse me?"

"Them fancy knights who wield the Light all fancy-like."

Uther smiled. "Good to see that education hasn't been wasted on you." He looked the man in the eyes, noticing the scar that covered one of them, and his missing left ear. "Had a few scraps other than with women I take it?"

"Oh sure. Gnolls can bite ya better than any whore. And then there's these greenskins." He glanced back at the chest. "Well, golden rule and all that."

"Golden rule?" Uther asked.

"Yeah. Whoever has the most gold, wins. And let me tell ya, that Terenas fellow? Man, he must have dug in deep under his fancy palace, because he sure as hell is paying us a lot of gold to fight your war."

"Funny," Uther whispered. "I thought in the face of complete destruction, it was _our _war."

"And so it is," Gawain said, as he patted Uther on the shoulder. "But on that note, Sir Uther and I must retire to see our lord commander. I trust you'll join us in good time."

"Yeah, good time. I'll just have my own good time first if you don't mind."

Uther did mind, but had no time of his own to voice the objection. Least not if he wanted to stay at Gawain's side as he led him towards the command tent. For a moment, silence lingered between the two men. A moment after that...

"Uther..."

"Don't say it."

A moment after that, life returned to a series of moments, and words linking them.

"I didn't want to-"

"Inform me that we were using mercenaries?" Uther asked. "That they'd come marching into town?"

"I didn't-"

"No horn to announce their arrival. Are we that tired? Or that careless?"

They were twenty feet from the command tent when Gawain came to a stop. Close enough that Uther could experience the smell of roasted pork coming from inside, but not so close that his hunger overwhelmed his righteousness.

"Take it from me, Sir Uther, as someone who's fought for over two decades and didn't have some fancy bishop to give me magic," Gawain whispered. "The high road is pretty, but you'll have a hard time marching across it."

"We've managed so far."

"Have we? Alterac is destroyed. Quel'Thalas and Gilneas have only just fully committed their forces. Stormwind is in ruins, and a scared boy is all that's left of the line of Wrynn, so if the Alliance doesn't carve up this land as recompense for liberation, rest assured that everyone from Daelin Proudmoore to even Terenas Menethil himself will try to steer the proverbial ship to their own proverbial sea. And all this before we've even marched on Blackrock Spire, let alone the Dark Portal itself."

Uther frowned. "You speak as if the orcs don't know they've lost."

"Course they know they've lost - they're savage, but they're not stupid. But do you think they're going to surrender now?"

Uther glanced to the southeast. "One can hope," he murmured, before looking back at Gawain. "But still. Mercenaries?"

"Yes. Mercenaries. What of them?"

"I-"

"Sir Uther, I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a pig in that command tent, and I really want to have some of it before we're forced to march to join up with Lord Lothar. So, yes, I remained mum on the mercenaries because I knew I'd get this reaction. But they're here, you're here, so let's just get it out now." He took a breath. "Is it that we're using them? Or that they're not fighting for free?"

Uther remained silent. Truth was, he could smell the pork as well, and as Benedictus had said so often, it was hard for a man on an empty stomach to remain as virtuous as a man on a full one. And as Gawain had said, he'd fought wars and battles before. Up until a few years ago, he'd been a simple cleric at Northshire. He could debate the intricacies of the Light with the most learned men in the land, but the ways of the world? He'd never considered himself to be that naive, but...

"Doesn't it feel wrong?" Uther whispered.

...but he had nothing else he could say right now.

Gawain sighed and looked at the mercenaries, half of whom were in a circle cheering at a fistfight. "Of course it feels wrong." He looked back at Uther. "But he's right, you know. The golden rule is clear when it comes to war. He who has the most gold often wins. And after Alterac, the Alliance has found itself in possession of quite a bit of spare gold."

"Oh, I'm sure," Uther lied, the news hitting him like an ogre's fist. "Except that isn't the golden rule."

"Uther..."

"The golden rule states that one should do unto others as they wish others to do unto them. It doesn't state-"

"Tyr's arse Uther, of course I know what the golden rule is," Gawain snapped. "Question is, are you aware, after all the _shit _of this past year, that it counts for just that?"

"Counts for what?"

"Shit. Tripe. Codswallop. You think words written by fancy men in fancy cathedrals mean anything when we've been fighting a war for our very survival?" He pulled out the waterskin and poured what was left of its contents down his throat. "Light's sake, I need wine."

Uther frowned, and Gawain must have seen, because as he returned the waterskin to his belt, he gave the paladin a frown. "Oh, I'm sorry, does that bother you?"

Uther glanced at the mercenaries. "I think we both know that men like them don't fight for just gold."

"Yes, and we both know that a year from now, a bunch of babies are going to come mewling into the world with their mothers telling them that dear daddy fought for their future, when in reality, his real family is making him miserable." Gawain sighed. "Believe it or not, I've worked with mercenaries before. And part of the reason is that I'd rather scum like them take a spear through the gut than an actual soldier who's sworn to defend his country."

"And what of how, by using them, we're scarce better than goblins and trolls, who'd fight for the same thing?"

"I don't know. But if we win, what does it matter?"

Uther didn't say anything. He wanted to say that it did matter. He wanted to say that it mattered more than anything else. That the means of victory meant just as much as the victory itself. But, looking at the mercenaries, at the footmen, at the mud and dirt that coated everything, he knew that for those men, the means would matter little. Most of those men wanted to return home. Some of them wanted to rebuild their home here. And that was to say nothing of elves, dwarves, and gnomes, who after the war, would go back to doing...whatever it was that they did in times of peace.

_And what will I do? _Uther wondered.

Gawain pat him on the shoulder, as if he'd heard Uther actually ask the question. "Come on," he said. "There's pork, and wine, and I'm going to need both before we march on Blackrock Spire."

Uther brushed the knight's hand off his shoulder, but nevertheless forced a smile. "Better to fight on a full belly, is that it?"

"Long as you get through the battle without puking your guts out? Yes." Something twinkled in Gawain's eye, before he turned and headed for the tent. "You coming?"

Uther didn't answer. He just sighed, and followed the knight, his eyes on the ground. Obeying just like a dog.

A dog of war.


End file.
